


Anglo-American Alliance

by Inspire_me_to_breathe



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Americans, Anglophile, Banter, British, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, cuteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 02:12:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inspire_me_to_breathe/pseuds/Inspire_me_to_breathe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is feeling homesick. Arthur cheers him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anglo-American Alliance

“These,” Arthur holds up the newspaper wrapped package, “Are not chips, Eames.”

Eames shrugs, tears away the greasy paper and pops one in his mouth. “You should have been more specific about which dialect you were using.”

“These are not chips.” Arthur repeats, scowling. He examines the packet. “These are fries.”

Eames smirks. “Stop being pedantic. It’s a perfectly good meal with all the five essential food groups.”

“You mean fat, grease, potatoes, salt and Briticisms?” Arthur sneers even as he takes a bite.

“Exactly.” Eames agrees.

“You did this to prove a point, didn’t you?” Arthur fights back the urge to slap Eames’s grin off his face. Admittedly, this desire is not uncommon, nor frequently suppressed.

“Yes.” The forger nods gravely. “Next time, don’t ask me to get lunch unless you ask me in my own language.”

“That’s stupid.” Arthur throws a chip at him. It misses.

“It’s not.” Eames snickers at his poor aim, “It insults me every time I have to listen to you mangle the language of my country.”

“Mangle?” Arthur snorts, “You mean improve.”

Eames disagrees, “No. I really don’t.” He shoots Arthur a look, “I actually like the letter ‘u’, unlike you Americans who seem to have this unresolved and unwarranted vendetta against the poor bugger.”

“It’s unnecessary! It doesn’t make a difference to the pronunciation of the word!” Arthur argues fervently.

“And all these randomly placed ‘z’s do?” Eames rolls his eyes.

“It’s zee not zed!”

“Tell that to Jay-Zed.”

“Well, what about anti-clockwise? Do you hate clocks? Is that it?” Arthur shakes his head, “Totally unreasonable.”

“And please do tell me what exactly is so eggy about an eggplant? What a ridiculous name– ”

“Aubergine isn’t?”

“And don’t get me started on fall.”

“The leaves fall. That one makes sense.”

Eames just shakes his head sadly, as if it pains him to be a witness to Arthur’s mangling of the English language.

“You’re never this patriotic usually.” Arthur frowns, just enough sincerity in his voice to set Eames on edge. “What’s special about today?”

“Nothing.” Eames says between mouthfuls of chips. But Arthur knows him too well to believe that.

“How long has it been since you were in England?”

Eames chews slowly, procrastinating.

“A while,” He finally admits.

“Well,” Arthur says, and it’s not a conjunction, just an expression.

Eames wraps up the half-eaten chips and pushes them away. They leave a stain on the woodwork. He can sense Arthur’s gaze on him and it’s uncomfortable, because Arthur’s stare is issued on a level of intensity uncontested by mere mortals. Eames was the one who taught him to look, to observe, but is starting to regret that decision now. He refuses to meet Arthur’s gaze, so they sit in silence for a while. At some point Arthur leaves, and Eames doesn’t bother to look up. The sun is hot through the window and Eames misses the rain.

Arthur comes back to find Eames in a worse mood, lying on the dusty sofa with his arms folded over his face.

Arthur sets down a large cardboard box on the threadbare carpet, grimacing when it drops more heavily than anticipated and shudders noisily against the hard floor.

“What’s this?” Eames sounds suspicious, and has every right to be, considering Arthur’s history of so-called ‘surprises’.

However, curiosity gets the better of Eames, as it always does, and he pulls himself upright for a better look.

Arthur is unpacking.

Eames watches in fascination as the items are placed around him on the floor. A teapot. An umbrella. A toy crown. A football. Arthur still has more to produce. Pack of Guinness. Copy of The Times. A mouldy one pence found on the pavement.

“This is all very…” Eames searches for a suitable adjective.

“British?” Arthur suggests, offering the forger a jar of curry.

“Unexpected.” Eames corrects, allowing a small smile to play upon his lips. He takes the curry.

Arthur upends the box and Johnson’s English dictionary tumbles out, hitting the floor with it’s sharp corner. Eames winces. “Have more respect.” He admonishes, picking up the book to lovingly check for damage.

Arthur’s eyebrow twitches but he refrains from commenting. He shoves a bowler hat on Eames’s head and forces a cockney accent.

“This is a one-off, you won’t get to skive off work again; it’s only because you looked a tad knackered from this past fortnight with no holiday, my good chap, and you were driving me round the bend. So you better be chuffed with all these bits-n-bobs and rubbish because, quite frankly, they’re the dog’s bollocks, even if they’re not quite my cup of char. Any road up, break time is over. Now you can say ‘ta’, get up off your arse and stop whinging. You wanker.”


End file.
